Apocalypse
by tessaless
Summary: Four times that Blair Waldorf kisses Chuck Bass, and one time she doesn't.
1. One

A/N: Part one of what I believe shall be five. Whoo, Chuck and Blair, how ten months ago.

* * *

The first time Blair Waldorf kissed Chuck Bass, Nate could see them through the doorway, standing in the hallway waiting in line to use the bathroom. New Year's eve, his least favorite of Serena's favorite holidays, returned full force, and she'd thrown the party. Serena always threw _the_ party, or so it seemed. Were he completely honest with himself, Nate would realize that he didn't even like parties all that much, but he really liked Serena, and she always seemed to be at parties. It was almost worth it. But not this time, at two am in the hallway waiting in line to use the bathroom. Blair Waldorf kissed Chuck Bass as Nate watched the scene unfold.

Perched on the corner of Serena's messy, never-made canopy bed, Blair kicked her heels against the side of the side of the mattress and sipped delicately at her mixed drink, hair unkempt and crossing every which way over her bare back. "How come you never hit on me?" he heard her ask, her high voice slurring slightly at the end. "Am I seriously that hideous?"

Nate spotted Chuck, half-visible, splayed among Serena's pillows, and clearly too plastered to get out of bed. "Blair Waldorf," he said, hair pushed up against the headboard, Easter egg khakis wrinkled and pleatless. "Blair Waldorf. You're untouchable." Blair snorted.

"Untouchable? Seriously, Chuck?" Chuck Bass nodded, gazing at the ceiling. "What does that mean, untouchable? Too fat? Too ugly? Too anal-retentive?"

"You're Nate's. No one else can have you." Nate could feel his stomach drop at the mention of his name. They seemed oddly intimate, his girlfriend and his best friend. Like he shouldn't be watching this. Like he shouldn't be there, waiting for the bathroom in the hallway of Serena's apartment at two am on New Years. Chuck swung his legs over next to Blair's and leaned in against the back of her neck. "You're beautiful."

"What?" Blair asked. "That's the best you can do?" She gathered her hair with her hands and released it again. A silk spaghetti strap slipped off of her shoulder and down her arm. Chuck ran his hand through his own hair, leaving it sticking up and over in unnatural ways.

"It's true, though," he said, and pushed the strap back over her shoulder. Blair shivered. "You're ethereal."

"You're drunk," Blair said, and giggled. "I bet you wouldn't touch me with a ten foot pole." Chuck sat up and very deliberately placed his hand on top of hers.

"Where's the pole?" he asked. Blair giggled again.

"I'm going to kiss you," she said. "Do you think the world will explode?" Chuck coughed.

"You're going to kiss me?" he repeated, voice cracking. Blair crossed her legs, leaned in, and kissed him on the side of the mouth. Chuck coughed again. "The untouchable Blair Waldorf just kissed me," he said, slowly, and he wrapped his arms around her waist and tugged her down onto the messy bed besides him. Blair giggled, cheeks stained a dark pink. And then Chuck kissed her, fingers tangled, fabric bunching at the small of her back, noses smashing together. They kissed each other.

And then it was over, legs pressing against legs, neither silk strap on Blair's shoulder, Chuck licking his lips as neither party pulled away. Nate's fingertips began to tingle, in the hallway, waiting for the bathroom.

"Maybe." Blair said, voice wavering, high and shrill. "Maybe this is a little bit too much." She let out a small laugh. "Maybe I'm a little bit untouchable."

"So where's the apocalypse then?" Chuck asked, and he ran his fingertips along Blair's thigh.

Nate's own empty-stomach spirits threatened their way back up. The bathroom lock behind him clicked open, a drunken Hazel stumbling past, and Nate whirled around to use it, kneeling on the floor over the toilet and holding his breath in hopes he wouldn't have to accommodate his twisting stomach. And he didn't. Nate would always remember that he didn't throw up that night—the only New Years since the age of eleven for which the contents of his intestines stayed put.

The entire thing left him unsettled, and oddly paranoid. Like it rendered him useless, the connecting thread between Chuck and Blair, no longer necessary and cast aside at whim. Like they'd wake up the next morning and never bother speaking to him again.

And they didn't—speak to him, that is—the next morning. Until midway through breakfast, the three of them crowded around a leftover fruit plate on the counter. Nate chewed an unusually large grape carefully, running his tongue along the seed.

"God," Blair announced, much more loudly than the circumstances really required, "I am so hung-over." Chuck stabbed a pineapple slice violently with his fork. "I seriously don't remember anything!" Blair continued, her shrill voice echoing slightly in Serena's cavernous kitchen. Chuck's hand flew to the back of his neck, and stayed there.

"I don't remember anything either," Chuck said, clearing his throat. He looked up at Blair pointedly and her face flushed as she suddenly became interested in picking the sprinkles one by one off of her doughnut.

"I have a headache," she added, her bare left foot shaking against Nate's knee. Nate felt jumpy himself, the adrenaline receptors in his brain screaming at him to Just Do Something Already!

"You know," he said, and his voice cracked as both Chuck and Blair's heads swivel around, like they'd actually forgotten he was standing right there beside them. Nate coughed. "You know, it's like you guys could have really done pretty much anything last night," he blurted out before he could stop himself. His heart jumped—bang, up to his throat, and Nate coughed again. "It's like, no one would ever know," he clarified, tugging on his earlobe.

Chuck's head shot up to stare at him. Blair very suddenly stopped moving, her left foot freezing against the skin on his leg. Nate could feel his face flush as he stared into his glass of milk. He was used to this feeling, the burning oh-why-did-I-have-to-open-my-big-retarded-mouth of embarrassment. Nate hated that feeling.

The weird thing was, he didn't think he was even angry. He really wasn't. He knew he should have been. Somewhere in the back of his mind he felt betrayed maybe, or, no, that wasn't quite right. Abandoned. Left out. But Nate wasn't angry. He just felt kind of weird about it, a bad taste in the back of his throat he couldn't quite shake. Nate wasn't supposed to know about this. The world didn't explode. The apocalypse didn't come, not this time, not for this crime. Except, Nate kind of wished it would, for once.

* * *

A/N: Yay, Nate!angst. It's the best kind, really, and you know it :)


	2. Two

A/N: Thanks for the reviews and stuff, guys. And just reading in general. It makes me super happy :)

I mean, Nate Archibald makes me super happy, too. But you know, what with the mid-season hiatus and all...

* * *

The second time Blair kissed Chuck, Nate wasn't ever meant to find out. Okay, so he probably wasn't meant to find out any of the times that Blair kissed Chuck, but Nate wouldn't have known this, he figures, were it not for Georgina Sparks.

Nate had learned young: the less sustained contact he had with Georgie, the less likely he was to meet an untimely demise. Some lessons are easily remembered after three hours spent cowering on the closet floor at his ninth birthday party. She'd stabbed him with a hair clip when he refused to hand over his new Gameboy Color.

"You wear too much eyeliner," he told her, in a moment of bravery, midway through third hour biology. Georgina Sparks giggled as she melted the end of her pen in the Bunsen burner between them. She raised her eyes as he stared at the floor, his cheeks burning as he realized the colossal mistake he'd just made.

"Well," she replied, wiping the distorted, melted end of her pen off on his textbook, "Nate Archibald." Georgina rolled the syllables of his name around in her mouth like a particularly unsavory mouthwash. "The thing is, you don't wear any eyeliner at all."

"I don't, though," Nate explained, his eyebrows nearly meeting as he blinked in response. Georgina leaned in and pushed his bangs back with a sharp fingernail grazing across his forehead.

"How's Blair?" she asked, minty breath whipping across his face. Nate knitted his eyebrows even further.

"Uh," he said. "Fine, I think." Georgina grinned, each one of her white teeth flashing at him in the florescent school lighting. She flipped the gas on the Bunsen burner off, and then back on again.

Truth be told, Nate hadn't talked to Blair Waldorf in nearly a week. It was refreshing, to be honest. Blair could be kind of, well, _Blair_. It was all, 'What are you doing tonight?' and 'Have you finished your English paper yet?' and 'Don't chew on the end of your pen, Nate, disgusting.' It was kind of like dating his mom, sometimes. Nate shrugged. Yeah, so Blair was fine. Probably.

"Fine? Really?" Georgina's smile widened. Nate thought she looked creepy. "And how's Chuck?" Chuck, on the other hand, was not fine at all. He was skittish, and jumpy, and the other day they were playing his Xbox, right, NHL 2007, and Chuck just, get this, _let him win_. It was so unlike Chuck and vaguely concerning, and really, it takes all the brilliance out of winning when your opponent just gives up. So Nate wished Chuck would snap out of whatever his deal was, and party with him properly again.

He told Georgina none of this. "Chuck's fine," he said, and silently added _unless he's seen you lately_. Georgina scratched her fishnet-clad thigh and continued to leer at him. Nate glanced back down at the lab table. "Uh," he said, "are these cells still in prophase, or, wait, I think we missed the whole mitosis thing completely."

Georgina blinked. "So," she began. "You weren't at Serena's on Thursday." Nate tapped his collarbone. This, he thought wildly, is probably how an antelope feels right before the lion bites its head off. Georgina hadn't stopped smiling, even a little bit at all.

"I was not," Nate agreed.

"Blair and Chuck both were," she continued. Nate wonders if she'll go away if he plays dead. Probably not. Georgina would probably just eat him and steal his iPod or something. Nate said nothing at all. Georgina suddenly dropped the smile off of her face. "Anyways," she said, quickly, "by STD standards, we have now officially hooked up, since Chuck and I do it on a regular basis." Nate bit his lip.

"What?" Georgie winked at him.

"You know," she said, "in that you've 'hooked up' with everyone that everyone you've actually hooked up with has hooked up with. It's how half the freshman got syphilis, gross." Nate blinked.

"But I haven't hooked up with Chuck," he protested, and Georgina grinned again.

"You have hooked up with Blair, though, I presume," she said, and then "We can take our metaphorical sex to the real level, if you're interested, which I presume you are." Georgina paused dramatically, and sent Nate an ostensible wink. "Which I mean, how could you not be interested? I mean, look at me."

"Wait," Nate said. "I don't get it." Georgina rolled her eyes.

"Of course you don't," she bristled. "Allow me to explain it in terms that even you can handle. Blair and Chuck got a little too touchy-feely in the bathroom last weekend. In conclusion, you might want to get yourself tested."

"Oh." Nate's stomach dropped. "What does that mean, exactly?" he asked, and then, "You know what, nevermind." Georgina fingered her fishnets again.

"I have to use the bathroom," Nate said, and he left, his backpack on the Biology room floor, walking down the empty hallway and right out of the St. Jude's building. It's cold, in February, and the wind leaves him licking his already chapped lips. He bought a hotdog, sat cross-legged on the Manhattan sidewalk, and ate it. It's nothing new. Nate skips Biology all the time.

It's not the apocalypse, not a little bit, not at all. It's barely a blip on the seismograph, and Nate decides never to think about it again. The thing about Nate, though, is he doesn't. He's privy to the sought-after ability to compartmentalize things, put them in their rightful place in his mind, and leave them there. Rarely do they worm their way out and, if they do, he just puts them right back again. It's a useful, peaceful system, and Georgina could be wrong, anyways. Right? She really could. It's not like Georgina has never lied to him before.

So, yeah, it's no big deal. Especially, Nate thinks, because it probably didn't even happen at all. Probably.


	3. Three

The third time Blair Waldorf kisses Chuck Bass, Nate finds out when the masses do, and his world crashes down in a fury. It's the first time he can ever remember being thankful for Gossip Girl, and it's more than just a kiss, and it leaves him with more than just a vague unsettling motion he can push down and store away. Nate can feel his anger seethe and ricochet around his body in search of a suitable outlet—bang, bang, bang.

He really should have seen this coming, and, in retrospect, he feels a kind of unplaced pull of responsibility for having not anticipated it, like he could have headed this massive collapse of the world as he knows it, if he'd thought about it, and if he'd tried. And the thing is, he could have. He really could have stopped it.

But maybe it would be worse if he'd seen it (the way that Jenny saw it, but at least Jenny had a conscience enough to tell him, at least Jenny _cared_), a sharp and distinct cloud of betrayal looming in plain view of each secret smile they shared, each inside joke, each smirk that sailed right over his head like tenth grade Algebra. Because they had more in common with each other in a pinky finger than Nate does in his entire body, even if he unraveled every single genome, each microscopically thin slice of DNA stretched across Manhattan for everyone to see.

And maybe it's because Nate never understood the nuances of being mean, the strange underlying satisfaction in kicking someone who's already down. Nate never understood Chuck and Blair together, or even Chuck and Blair alone, but he suddenly and very clearly understands that you don't need to understand someone to love them, or to understand that there are some things that just can't be forgiven, no matter how hard you try.

Nate knows that there's a lot he understands but won't ever fully wrap his head around, stores of information he'll never fully grasp. Like why this had to happen to him, and why today of all days is the day that his life had to fall apart. He knows he's being hypocritical. He just can't bring himself to care.

Except, life doesn't happen on schedule, as planned, and on time. But it happened today, and that means today Nate knows he has to go kick the living shit out of Chuck Bass.

No number of years of friendship can overshadow having an affair with your best friend's girlfriend—"Three things I care about, money, pleasure and you," his cigar-smoking ass. If Chuck didn't give a shit about him, well then Nate certainly didn't give a rat's flying fuck about Chuck. Same for Blair. He could feel a headache coming on, the way they used to when he played soccer in elementary school, and someone fouled him. It's funny how nothing ever really changes.

The worst bit, he thinks, is that it's a package deal. Chuck _and_ Blair. The best friend and the boyfriend. This kind of thing isn't actually supposed to happen to people, and if to people, then certainly not to him. He's Nate Archibald, for God's sake. He's supposed to get this blessed sort of disconnect from situations like this, an "Oh, that's too bad," moment. Except then you change the channel, and it's the Blackhawks at Detroit, and holy shit, that was checking from behind, and wait, aren't they gonna fight this one out?

Nate briefly thinks that maybe this is how Blair felt when he told her about Serena, which causes him to wonder if Serena knew about this, her dizzying smiles, and blonde hair and winter scarves. He steadies himself on the brick wall outside St. Jude's (Where is Chuck? Where is he?) and discards these thoughts systematically from his brain. This isn't about Serena, it's about Blair. And Chuck. It's about Chuck, mostly.

And he spots Chuck, Chuck and his limo both. His throat tightens dangerously The crowd on the sidewalk disappears. Nate can feel nothing but his pounding blood and the long-forgotten instinct to fight. He takes a slow, deep breath, and, for the first time in a long time, his life seems real. Chuck glances up at him, and something deep inside Nate's chest snaps. And then—suddenly—he's really doing it, and he has Chuck pinned up against the trunk—the crowd is cheering—and the blessed adrenaline boils over and leaks down through his toes and out into the crisp winter air. All systems go.

* * *

A/N: Hi if you're still reading :)


	4. Four

A/N: Hi, I like this part. You should too. And then you should review, 'cause, you know, I'd like my ego stroked kthx.

* * *

The fourth time that Blair Waldorf kisses Chuck Bass (As far as Nate knows, anyways, and not that he's keeping count or anything) reminds him eerily of the first in that seeing is believing, and he still can't bring himself to look away.

Blair always shines in silk, no matter the occasion, but Nate secretly hates weddings, and Bart never liked him anyways. (He tries not to take it personally: it's not like Bart ever really liked anyone, come to think of it.)

And the sinking feeling in his stomach is telling him that Blair's never looked this, well, giddy before. But then again, who wouldn't glow after a speech like that? Nate knows he's not great shakes with words and phrases, and he drags his compositions out painfully, lacking in both rhythm and rhyme. It's all in the repetition, or so his teachers claim, but it's not that Nate wants to be eloquent. It's simply that Chuck already is. Which makes, Nate thinks, at least two things Chuck has that he doesn't: words and Blair Waldorf.

He's not jealous, though, really. Nate knows Chuck Bass like he knows breathing, and Chuck's got problems of his own that Nate can't even fathom grappling with. Because, when it comes to the thick of it, they've got each other, at least. (He just wishes the obnoxious little voice in his head would quit poking him and whispering about how Chuck also has Blair.)

And Nate can't help but to wonder what he and Blair could have been were it not for his father and the omnipresent pressure he represents. He's like every other teenager, really: the second you tell him to do something, he wants anything but. And who tells a sixteen-year-old to propose to their girlfriend, anyways? Nate's pretty sure that's not normal parental behavior, even for the Upper East Side.

But then Vanessa scatters his thoughts when she leans in close, and Nate comes to the sudden and passionate conclusion that he's happy for them, together. At least, he's happy that they're happy. And he really is. Nate loves nothing more than making people happy, and in this case, he makes them happy by doing nothing at all.

He clinks his glass against Vanessa's, and her infectious smile spreads. Nate can't help but feel the swell of pride that he's making Vanessa happy, too. And he knows his time will come. Serena catches his eye from across the room, and they smirk at each other. Chuck tips an invisible hat in his direction from the dance floor.

Nate secretly hates weddings (Remember the Sheppard's, anyone?), but everyone else seems to love them, and that's enough for him. So when Vanessa links her fingers in with his and whispers about getting some air, he can't help but to comply. But he's Nate Archibald. And Vanessa can be captivating, regardless of how Blair shines in silk. But he makes sure to finish his champagne before they get their coats, just because, well, captivating can only go so far.


	5. Something Else

Except Nate can very distinctly remember one time where Blair Waldorf _didn't_ kiss Chuck Bass, and the weird thing is that, for once, he actually saw it coming. The weird thing is he was probably six hours south of telling Vanessa he loved her, and Blair was probably a good twelve to fifteen south of ruining her life.

Not that Nate actually thought that Blair's life was ruined—not everyone successful goes to Yale, and well, not everyone who goes to Yale ends up successful. So they huddled together, each as confused as the other as Nate finally crept his way up the ladder of achievement at the same time as Blair herself plummeted down. They always made an odd pair, he knew, but something about it just felt right to them both. It always felt right, with Blair Waldorf.

And Nate, for one, could appreciate Blair's demise for what it really was—after all, he didn't know self-destruction like Chuck knew self-destruction—the distance was imperative in the understanding of the situation, really. Not that Nate would have been able to express his feelings in quite as many words.

So he just held her hand, gently, and draped his ridiculous family jacket across her always-bare shoulders as they reminisced about the past. Because Nate knows as well as any thorough bread Upper-East Sider: mutual experience trumps almost anything, really. And they both know how this movie turns out, essentially. Sure, there were variations and minor blips to work out along the way, but you don't start life as a descendant of the great Vanderbilt and finish it as something other than—you don't.

And he can't help but smile to himself, just a little, as Blair tells Dorota to send anyone but Chuck up to see them, and he can't help but smile when he hears the footsteps that signify Chuck getting turned away. After all, victory tastes significantly less sweet when you're the only one left playing the game.

The apocalypse doesn't come again that cold March morning when he kisses her in Central Park—the apocalypse doesn't really apply to this situation after all. Nate knows history repeats itself, painfully, consistently. The circular flow model leaves him on top for the moment, but he doesn't ever know what next week's spin of the wheel will bring: no one ever really can.

Nate knows he's not as stupid as they always make him out to be. So he decides, well, fuck it. Fuck Vanessa and her unwillingness to accept him for who he is, fuck his parents, fuck Chuck and his inconsistencies. Fuck Serena, Serena never knows what she wants, really. Nate always knows what he wants; he just never seems to be able to figure out how to make it happen. And in this moment, it's happening, finally, for once.

So he kisses her as importantly as he can bring himself to—because what if it's neither the beginning nor the end of their story—what if it's merely the middle? Anything could happen tomorrow, and Nate's done with hesitations, with regrets.

So he kisses her, and she kisses him, and just for the moment, the world tilts and teeters and borders on apocalyptic—but then Blair pulls away, and the ground pulls itself back into the correct position beneath his feet, and Nate doesn't think he could stop his smile from spreading to save the entire human race.

* * *

A/N: Sorry for more or less forgetting about this story, guys. It's finished now, though! Anyways review if you want to make _me_ smile :)


End file.
